


VB Tumblr Prompts

by tsv



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Angst, Engagement, F/M, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Near Future, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsv/pseuds/tsv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various prompts from Tumblr, so I don't spam Venture Bros' AO3 with a billion little fics. Check the chapter names if you're looking for something specific.</p><p>(Not all of it is porn, and chapters will be marked as such.)</p><p>Most recent chapter: Brock/Rusty, rimming, halloween.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (NSFW) Rusty: Masturbation

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the convenient fic collection, because I've written several quick things in the past few days and intend to write more, and I don't want to dump every single one of them as an individual piece of writing (especially when most of them are quite short).
> 
> You can send in prompts and requests [here](http://tsv.tumblr.com/ask), I'm always taking new ones! Any pairing, or lack of pairing, is totally fine.
> 
> The prompt for this one was something smutty involving Rusty and his new speedsuit.

"I look _amazing_."

Enzo had really outdone himself with this one.

Rusty turned this way and that, admiring himself in his bedroom's full length mirror. It had been high time for him to get a new speedsuit, and this one — the "Ambassador" — fit exceedingly well, snug in all the right places and comfortably loose in others. The material was some sort of blend, exceedingly soft, yet durable enough for the wear and tear of a superscience lifestyle.

Such a fetching shade of teal, too. This — _this_ was the kind of outfit you expected a billionaire superscience mogul to be wearing. 'Dress for the part', they say.

The scientist ran his hands over his chest and downwards across his pelvis, feeling the own contours of his slim body through the fabric, the bony protrusions of his ribs and hips, shivering at the feeling of the garment pressing flush against his skin. Perfect. It was perfect.

He looked _perfect_. Handsome. Eye-catching. And — dare he say it? _Sexy._

Very sexy. Hell, he was getting kind of hard just looking at himself in this thing.

Rusty shot a tentative look over his shoulder, even if he already knew the door to be locked. Dean would more than likely be studying for the rest of the evening. Hank didn't get off his shift for another two hours. Brock was meeting with an O.S.I. buddy for drinks. And Hatred was stuck at a desk watching security feeds, some seventy floors down.

Which, collectively, meant that he was entirely free to have some _fun_ , if he wished.

He took a few slow steps backwards, watching himself in the mirror until the backs of his legs bumped the side of the bed, easing himself into a sitting position on the mattress. He licked his lips, pinching the zipper and dragging it down as slowly as possible, gradually revealing bits of his bare chest underneath.

Oh, yeah, that was good. His other hand slid carefully between his legs, massaging himself through the fabric, feeling goosebumps on his skin as he watched his reflection, unzipping just far enough to show just the tiniest bit of his belly button.

Rusty could feel the shape of his cock, nice and stiff yet still not fully erect, pressing against his palm. How long had it been since he'd gotten a chance to sit down and do this, inbetween the stress of everything from finances to his brother's passing? He hadn't felt this relaxed in a long time.

The thought of undressing entirely crossed his mind, briefly. But oh, no — he wanted to keep the speedsuit _on_ , for this one.

Thankfully, it unzipped far enough for him to get his erection out, even if he had to lift his hips a little, pulling himself free from underwear and speedsuit both. He bit his lip at the erotic sight of his hard flesh jutting out from the garment, increasingly flushed.

Only stopping to grab a bottle of lube from his nightstand, Rusty began to stroke himself in front of the mirror, leaning back a little. He gasped lightly as his opposite hand dripped thick beads of cold lubricant onto the head, lifting his fingers to smear it down across the rest of his shaft, shivering at the newfound slickness to his touch.

Normally, this was the point where he'd call to mind some fantasy to assist him in getting off. Any number of fictional — or not so fictional — women, as well as the rare man or two (he had to be drunk for that one), were on standby in his mind to help him with the task. But the incredibly lewd sight of his reflection, carefully squeezing himself in a tight fist, was proving to be more than enough for his needs.

His pace quickened, and he bit back a moan. The scientist then reminded himself that this was a far more expensive building than their old home had been, with much thicker walls, and the only one home was a son who was probably too engrossed in algebra to care even if he did happen to hear. He could _scream_ if he needed to.

So he let himself be as loud as he wanted with the next moan to work itself from his throat, a sound that felt deeply erotic inbetween his quickening breaths and the slick, rhythmic noises of his thrusts.

Rusty watched himself through increasingly thinned eyes as he fucked his own fist, stroking firmly from base to tip again and again. Another moan, then another, finding he actually quite enjoyed how he was sounding. Something like a whimper escaped him as he drew his unoccupied hand across his chest, pinching a nipple.

He fell back onto the mattress, eyes shut, fucking desperately up into his tight grip with little jerks of his hips. His body felt like liquid heat, thoughts fuzzy and distant. He was so close, too — balls drawn up tight and muscles tense, eager to cum. It never took long when he was this horny, something that was both a blessing and a curse.

Finally, his abdomen clenched and he gasped loudly, rocking forward, his cock pulsing as it spilled seed across his pale skin. His world went white and his mind blank for those few blissful, fleeting seconds of perfect ecstasy, shuddering and stroking himself erratically through his climax.

It took a few long moments for the man to recover, lungs aching as he panted for air, letting go of his softening member and just laying there for a while.

 _Wow,_ he thought, as cognitive function gradually returned to him. It'd been a long time since he'd managed to cum that hard. And it'd been while jerking off to _himself_. Rusty supposed he should've felt something like shame over that, and yet, he didn't. If anything, his self-esteem was at an all time high.

So instead, he smiled a little, slowly sitting up and straightening his glasses.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long — his face quickly fell into a grimace as he looked down, catching sight of a small stain blossoming through teal fabric.

 _Great_. He'd gotten _cum_ on his fancy new outfit.


	2. Hamilton/Sheila: Friendship, bittersweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Prompt: bittersweet Hamilton and Sheila, either exploring moments from their past or lingering remnants of feelings present-day. Either way, having their feelings very mixed but ultimately rooted in an unbreakable if often deeply buried friendship is very good."
> 
> I actually quite like these two together, which surprised me.

While Hamilton hadn't been present for the Monarch's antics at Wide Wale's party, word traveled quickly through the grapevine. He had only seen Sheila grow progressively more irate with her husband from that point on.

Another time, and he would've been satisfied to hear it, _vindicated_ even. The Monarch was little other than wasted potential, a man who had no idea how lucky he truly was to be blessed with such a magnificent, shining jewel of a woman for his lover.

But that bitterness had left him. The anger he felt, instead, was on Sheila's behalf. Not as a competing candidate for her affection, but as a _friend_.

He stopped her, then, after a Council meeting. The outline of his hand flickered as it laid upon her slight shoulder, and he could feel a surprising amount of tension throughout her small frame.

Sheila did relax, slightly, once she recognized his touch, looking up at him. There were circles under her eyes, carefully disguised by make-up yet recognizable to the astute — she looked as if she'd barely slept for days.

"You've been working too hard, dear," Hamilton soothed, his fingers giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Twice as hard as the rest of us."

"Well, a woman's job is never done," she said in a dry tone, though her painted lips were curled, as if she simultaneously appreciated the recognition of her efforts.

"Why, if I didn't know any better, I would say that the new Sovereign stands before us in all her glory."

A humorless chuckle, Sheila averting her gaze, gripping her own arm in a guarded gesture. He knew that other things were on her mind.

Hamilton let the silence lull between them for a few moments.

"You deserve better, you know," he said quietly, feathering his fingers down her arm in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. _He doesn't deserve you._ "If you're unhappy—"

"I'm fine," Sheila said bluntly, cutting him off, then repeating her sentiment in a quieter voice, as if she hadn't intended to be so bold. "We're... we're fine."

Hamilton hesitated, slowly drawing his hand back. Though they'd come to regard each other as friends and confidantes, her husband was always a touchy subject. Sheila was quick to become defensive, knowing damn well the way he was looked down upon by their peers.

She also seemed to try a little _too_ hard to rationalize away anything one could consider mistreating her. _He's just stressed. He's just upset over Dr. Venture. It's not a big deal._

He took a soft, reassuring tone, saying his next words as gently as possible. "My door is always open to you, if you ever have a need. I mean that as your friend."

That, at least, earned him a smile, Sheila looking up at him. A genuine one — small, appreciative.

"Thank you, Hamilton."

He watched her leave, with her pursed lips and rigid posture, tiny heels clacking on the cold floor — worried about her, yet at the same time glad he was able to provide her some semblance of comfort.

And yet, for as glad as he was to have her friendship, the question burned in the back of his brain. He wouldn't ask it. He wouldn't want to put that on her so selfishly. But still, it remained.

_Do you think it could've ever worked out, you and I?_


	3. Pete/Billy: Lost Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a drabble meme: "YOU DID WHAT?!" and "It was an accident."

"YOU DID WHAT?!"

"I swear it was an accident."

"You lost your engagement ring! Seriously?! White, that ring took me, like, a _million paychecks_!" Even though the two of them had been together for over a year and engaged for almost a month, Billy was still in the habit of referring to him by his last name. He folded his arms, the anger in his voice dampening to injured passive-aggression. "I thought it meant something to you!"

"Yeah _duh_ it means something, Billy! What, do you think I'm heartless?" Pete gestured weakly with this hands. "It just— I don't know, it fell off somewhere! You know how busy I was this morning!"

Billy deflated a little, though he still looked hurt. He hopped up on the short stool in the lab that Rusty had graciously bought him at one point, sitting with his hands in his lap. "I just— I can't believe it. I just got you it! How is it gone already?"

Pete had the decency to look guilty as hell, which went a long way towards soothing his irritation.

"Listen, pally." His albino companion came to stand beside him, placing a hand on his mechanical arm. "I'm really sorry. But it's not like it means we're not still engaged. I'm gonna marry you, whether it's with a fancy ring or one from the bottom of a cereal box."

That brightened him up, looking up and repositioning his arm to hold Pete's hand with his own. That much was true. Rings could always be replaced — what mattered was that they were _together_.

"White... it's not your fault. I'm sorry for yelling—"

"Did somebody lose a ring in here?" Rusty's annoyed voice rang in from the adjacent room.

They both looked up at each other for a long moment, then started to laugh.


	4. Hamilton/Sheila: Friendship, "I wish I could hate you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a drabble meme, "I wish I could hate you."

"Not half bad, you must admit."

Hamilton had invited Sheila over to his new apartment a few weeks into the new Council's beginnings. Ostensibly to talk business, but more importantly, to enjoy a lunch between friends.

She _was_ impressed, actually. It was a cozy little place, somewhat high-end, with minimalistic decor and clean white walls, already decorated with abstract paintings. The highlight of the dining room was an eyecatching portrait of Hamilton himself, out of costume, done in a modern impressionist style.

Sheila leaned back in her chair, seated neatly in front of a mahogany table with a plate in front of her. Salmon croquettes, offset by an attractive arrangement of parsley and plump balls of cantaloupe. One of her favorite dishes he'd ever served her.

He'd remembered. Hamilton always remembered the small details.

"Well, it certainly suits you," she said, watching him fondly. He was standing beside the table in civilian attire, filling their glasses, wearing a crisp white dress shirt and gloves that disguised his 'affliction'.

How long had it been since they'd had lunch like this together? How long since those early days sitting on rolling hills of green, sipping wine and chatting about frivolous things?

And yet, all of that felt so far away, now. They'd been through so much. And she was a far different woman now than she had been the first time they had met, when he had seduced her into the ways of evil. A formidable supervillain of her own.

"I wish I could hate you."

Hamilton lifted his head in surprise, nearly spilling the bottle of champagne he was holding.

Sheila had him fixed with a calm expression, her cheek resting in her palm, speaking quietly in her beautiful, characteristic baritone. "You fucked up my _wedding_ , Hamilton. You nearly got both me and my husband _killed_. My husband loathes you. _I_ should loathe you."

"But you _don't_ ," he spoke slowly, as if it were almost a question.

"But I don't."

She smirked. So did he, sitting down across from her.

"To old friends." Hamilton raised his glass in her direction.

"To old friends."

Clink.


	5. Implied Brock/Rusty, Brock/Molotov: Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a drabble meme, “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

"Ran into Mol again the other day."

Rusty froze from where he'd been pointlessly trying to decipher some blueprints for one of his father's old inventions, lifting his head and adjusting his glasses. "Seriously?"

"Oh, yeah. You know, when we were in Egypt on your little pyramid hunt." Brock gestured lazily, leaning back in one of the flimsy lab chairs, testing its resistance. Doc was as cheap as ever with buying new furniture. "You remember the couple hours when we got separated?"

"I remember being chased after by some ridiculous supervillain who themed himself like an Egyptian god while you were _screwing around_ in some other part of the city," Rusty grumbled, hunching over his desk.

Doc's passive-aggression didn't bother him in the least. He was beyond used to it by now. All that mattered at the end of the day was that him and the boys were alive.

"Thought I saw her in a crowd. Turns out I was right. She was there on a heist for some... rare Egyptian artifact."

"Uh-huh," Rusty grunted, sounding a bit bored. "Then what, you made out in a pyramid for two hours until she cockblocked you?"

"Pretty much," Brock sighed, half contently, half frustratedly. He didn't normally open up to the scientist like this. Half because it meant leaving himself vulnerable, half because Doc usually didn't want to hear about his sexual exploits to begin with. But some part of him felt unusually talkative today. "Never met a woman who can keep up with me the way she can."

"Well, I'm _very_ happy for you," Doc sniped, not looking up.

They fell into a long silence, Brock leaning forward, his chair creaking in relief at the redistribution of his heavy weight.

Something then occurred to him, suddenly.

"Wait a minute. Are you _jealous_?"

Rusty jerked his head up at that, blanching a little. A vivid redness then began to creep onto his cheeks. "W—what?"

"You _are_." Brock stood up, smirking a little as he folded his arms across his chest. This wasn't the first time they'd had this discussion, and it wouldn't be the last. "You're actually jealous of me. You're jealous that I get to make out with hot chicks all the time."

The smaller man sputtered in irritation, though his initial surprise had visibly died down, eyes narrowing. "I'm not jealous of your constant — _sleeping around_ with strange women! Unlike you, I have two _sons_ and a _superscience empire_ to be worried about!"

Brock did nothing but chuckle in reply to those pitiful, false excuses as he exited the lab, even as Doc continued to rant at him from a distance.

It was odd, though, exactly how venomous and defensive Doc had gotten at such little provocation. Something he said must've really struck a nerve.

It wasn't until hours later that Brock even considered the possibility that maybe, just _maybe_ , it wasn't Brock that Rusty had been jealous of.

He quickly laughed it off. _Nah._

Couldn't be.


	6. Brock/Rusty: Don't Leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ladyofdecember for sending in this prompt. For the drabble meme, "Please, don't leave." with Brock/Rusty.
> 
> Set after the end of Season 3, when Brock decides to quit. I always wanted to see them have an actual conversation with each other about this.
> 
> (I kind of forgot that H.E.L.P.eR. exploded into Brock's chest, but whatever. You see him back at the Venture compound afterwards grabbing a duffel bag, so.)

_'I quit.'_

Brock's words still hung in his mind like a dark cloud, choking out all other thought. Quit. _Quit._ A decade and a half, over in an instant with just two little words. The memories had been flashing through his mind all evening.

It hadn't been the first time he'd had a scare like this. Somewhere around the boys' 3rd or 4th death, Brock had put his foot down, swore he couldn't stand seeing that happen to them again, and nearly left right then and there. It'd taken Rusty quite literally begging on his knees for the man to actually reconsider.

But this — this, _this_ felt more final. And though he knew it was no fault of his own, or at least, he wanted to believe it wasn't, he desperately didn't want the man to leave.

He genuinely couldn't imagine a life without him, at this point. Brock was so many things to him. More than a bodyguard. More than a companion. A _protector_ , something that had been so rare in Rusty's life. A father to his own sons.

(A damn good cook, too. He would certainly miss the spinach puffs.)

Rusty had maybe one shot at this, if _that_. One last-ditch attempt to convince Brock into staying. And yet, the gnawing at the pit of his stomach was telling him that he wouldn't succeed, no matter how hard he tried.

But he had to try, right?

That night, he quietly went down to Brock's bedroom, once the boys had been safely locked in their learning beds. Surprised to find the door already ajar, he hovered against the doorframe, expression glum as he discovered Brock right where he expected him to be — sitting on the floor, packing some essentials into a small duffel bag.

"So you really are quitting?"

Brock startled at the sound of his voice, and Rusty saw his hand twitch as if to go for the knife on his belt. Luckily, it didn't take long for recognition to set in, the blond looking up at him with an oddly stony expression. He seemed on edge, which wasn't a surprise with the day's events.

"Yeah."

Rusty took a few steps into the room, stopping only to sit down beside him. He recognized the cassette tapes that the man was tucking into the bag — Brock's favorite Zeppelin albums, fit neatly inbetween a change of clothes and a couple packs of cigarettes.

Brock glanced over at him for a long moment, as if waiting for him to say something, before resuming his packing.

Rusty shifted uncomfortably on the floor. All the things to say that he'd so carefully perfected in his mind had fled the instant he stepped into the room, right as he needed them. It took a few minutes of him sitting there in silence just to even find his voice.

And when the words did finally come, they felt pathetic and empty. How the hell was he supposed to convey just how much Brock meant to him?

"Please, don't leave."

The larger man stiffened beside him. Rusty took that as a sign to continue. "We need you here. The boys need you."

And after a moment, he admitted the truth in a quieter voice, painful as it was.

"I need you."

"I can't stay, Doc. Someone orchestrated this." Brock's words were unusually soft in tone, yet simultaneously unyielding, as if he'd been mentally rehearsing this. "And I need to find out who. The longer I stay here, the more danger you and the boys will be in."

Rusty laughed abrasively. "So _what_? We're in danger all the time, Brock. You think that'll be better with some O.S.I. _reject_ instead of you on my front lines?"

A tense sigh rattled out of the larger man, not looking at him. "It's not just that, Doc. I need... a break."

The unspoken words, 'from you', hung in the air between them.

Oh.

Rusty let out a humorless chuckle at nothing in particular, looking down at his own hands. Strange. When had they started to shake like that?

After another moment of silence, he finally got up, turning and walking across the room.

"Doc," Brock began, a hint of something like desperation in his voice as he looked over his shoulder, only to be surprised by the scientist lingering not near the exit, but by the bed.

On top of the nightstand stood a photograph of them all together, them and their ragtag little family, from a few Christmases ago. Dean had somehow convinced them to wear matching sweaters. They'd gotten Brock a 4XL, and even then, that strained against his impressive bulk. Even H.E.L.P.eR. was in the back, wearing a Santa hat.

That got a smile out of him, at least. Things suddenly felt slightly more real. Rusty gingerly picked it up, as if holding something sacred, and returned to sit beside him.

He then placed it in the duffel bag himself, on top of everything else, meeting Brock's gaze as he did so with something fierce and simultaneously vulnerable in his eyes.

"Don't forget about us," he said slowly.

It was Brock's turn to chuckle. "As if I ever could—"

Rusty abruptly leaned forward enough that he was nearly in Brock's lap, trembling fingers resting on the man's shoulders, cutting him off with a soft, fleeting kiss.

It may have not been the right time, but what better time did he have, anyway? Years of waiting, swallowing his feelings, and for what? Brock was leaving, regardless of what he did. He knew that now.

And it felt good, however brief, even if the man wasn't kissing him back. He didn't want it to end. He wanted a thousand more opportunities to kiss him like this, instead.

His soon-to-be-ex-bodyguard merely stared at him in stunned silence when he drew away. As boldly as he could, Rusty then placed his palm on Brock's knee.

"And don't get yourself killed out there," he said firmly.

Brock smiled, after a long moment. A broad hand closed over his.

"Yeah."


	7. Brock/Rusty: Trauma-related hurt/comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone on Tumblr asked for Rusty being triggered by his old show and Brock having to help him out. It isn't particularly shippy, but here it is.

Brock had known there was going to be trouble as soon as he heard Jonas Venture Sr.'s voice.

He'd just come out of the elevator into the penthouse, carrying a drink holder with enough coffee for him and all three of Ventech's finest super-scientists, only to find said three on the sofa in front of the flatscreen. Playing none other than _The Rusty Venture Show_.

A chill ran down his spine as soon as he spotted Rusty among them.

_Crap._

As quickly as he could, Brock offloaded the coffee onto the nearest flat surface he could find, trying to make his approach casual.

"Thought I'd find you guys in the lab."

White and Quizboy both lifted their heads to look at him, but Doc's gaze remained straight ahead, locked onto the screen. Red flag number 1.

"Yeah, well, we were just taking a quick break, and then _Billy_ here, the nerd—" White gestured to his smaller companion with a smile. "—decides that it's time to break out the remote and watch some TV shows from like, four decades ago."

"Come on, can you blame me? My childhood idol is like, right here!" Billy pointed at Rusty, who continued to barely respond. Hard to tell with the man's sallow complexion, but he looked pale in the face. Red flag number 2. "I always wanted to ask him a ton of questions about his show!"

"You guys been watching ever since I left? How many episodes?" Brock crossed the room towards the sofa, already dreading the answer.

"We're halfway through episode 3," Billy chattered excitedly, craning his head to look past Brock's bulk. "Hey, is that coffee?"

"Yeah, uh," He reached forward and grabbed Doc's arm, feeling the man flinch slightly in reply. That finally got him to look up, something kind of hollow in his eyes, like he wasn't looking _at_ Brock, but through him. Red flag number 3. "Help yourself. Need to talk to Doc for a minute. In private."

Brock tugged the scientist up off the couch and started to walk, not looking back at White and Quizboy's inevitable expressions of confusion. He wanted to keep this as discreet as possible.

Rusty was uncharacteristically quiet as he followed behind, a fact that made Brock's stomach sink more than anything. Normally, the man would be grumbling up a storm about being interrupted, or dragged around like a child — and yet, the trip to Doc's bedroom was made in perfect, eerie silence.

Once they were there, he sat the man down on his bed and took a seat beside him, sizing up the situation.

"Doc," he said slowly, trying to meet his gaze. "Are you okay?"

More silence.

"I'm okay," Rusty parroted hollowly after a moment, sounding distant.

Brock sighed. Of course he wasn't, that much was obvious. "Did watching the show get to you?"

That was enough to break Doc's fragile composure, his shoulders beginning to tremble, looking down at the floor.

After a moment of hesitation, Brock leaned forward, wrapping his tan arms around the scientist's thin frame, pulling him into a loose embrace. He was rarely one to be openly affectionate, but when it came to this, he made an exception.

This was far from the first time he'd had to do this — hell, the first episode had happened just a few months after he'd first arrived at the Compound. He hadn't known the first thing about how to handle it, then. They were rare — a combination of numbness from exposure, and Doc being damn good at avoiding the worst triggers, especially when he was trying to hide it from other people. But the show — that was always one of the worst.

Even if the bodyguard had never seen the show, it hadn't taken him long to figure out that the man had been through some serious shit. Casual anecdotes of horrifying lapses in parental judgment, told with a faraway look in his eye like he was trying to convince himself more than Brock that they were a real thing that happened to him. Even more casual anecdotes from people close to Doc's upbringing, like the Action Man or Colonel Gentleman.

So, even if it hadn't exactly been in the job description (but then, raising two young boys hadn't been, either), Brock had ended up becoming his one-man support system.

Rusty had acted as if that first episode had been beyond humiliating. But over time, he'd just sort of begrudgingly accepted the fact that he was going to have trouble keeping himself together at times, and that Brock would be there. This was normal, now. Nothing wrong with it.

It then distantly occurred to Brock that there was a period of time, not that long ago, where he _hadn't_ been there to pick up the pieces. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest as he tried to imagine Sergeant Hatred comforting Doc, how clumsy that must've been.

"Count to twenty, Doc," Brock mumbled softly, rocking back and forth subtly with the scientist in his arms. He heard the man begin to do so, muffled against his shoulder. "Good. Just like that."

At his best, these episodes ended in him staring at a wall for an hour or two. At worst, he was inconsolable, convinced nothing was real and struggling to remember names.

He wasn't sure how bad this one was, yet. But after a few seconds, he felt a pair of thin arms slowly wrap around him in return, squeezing him weakly. That was a good sign, at least.

Though he knew it'd been borne out of Billy's innocent desire to bond with his childhood hero over a shared interest, he still couldn't help but feel angry. He hated seeing Doc like this. He was the only one who ever got to see this side of him — the vulnerable trauma survivor, trembling and counting numbers to try and bring himself back to reality. At least one of them should have considered that there were some memories better left buried.

"Want to talk about it?" Brock said quietly, a few moments after the man had finished counting. There was a sort of rhythm and rhyme to it. If Doc turned him down now, he wouldn't push it any further.

And to his surprise, he _didn't_ turn him down.

Instead, he began to quietly open up about what he'd seen. Sort of raw, stream-of-consciousness, all filtered through the lens of his childhood memories rather than the bias of television, like discussing how one episode had portrayed 'an exciting fight with dinosaurs!' while Rusty himself had been _fucking terrified_ the entire time, having just seen one of them eat a man alive, begging his father to leave. How Billy and White had unknowingly laughed about it.

And Brock listened. Not all of it made sense, but he listened. He listened until the scientist finally slumped tiredly against him, shaking more violently, yet at the same time with less tension in his body. And then he awkwardly massaged Doc's back with one hand, holding him like that for as long as he needed.

It wasn't long before he heard a quiet sob escape the man, a sound that left something clenching painfully in Brock's chest. He held him a little closer, then.

After something like five minutes had passed, Brock was finally the one to break the silence. "You want me to go tell them that you're taking a nap?"

A couple more moments went by, as if the scientist was deliberating it. Finally, he replied, sounding a little hoarse. "Sure."

Rusty then added, in an even quieter voice, "Thank you, Brock."

"No problem."

Doc's smile was faint, but it was a smile, nonetheless.


	8. (Somewhat NSFW) The Monarch/Gary/Dr. Girlfriend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was: "Gary's assimilation into the relationship being kind of slow and awkward, and the others being torn between trying to respect his boundaries and being really eager to be all over him and also not sure if he's moving so slow for his own sake or if he's just trying not to step on any toes. Awkward fluff is wonderful."
> 
> Not 100% exactly what they asked for, but yeah. Mild NSFW near the end. Enjoy.

It had been a surprisingly official affair, considering. The three of them — Sheila, the Monarch, and Gary — had sat down at the dinner table and, in a very business-like manner, calmly discussed what would be the slow assimilation of Gary into their relationship.

It had felt every bit as surreal and exciting as anything else with the Monarch did — or should he say Malcolm? That was going to take some getting used to. All of this was. He could hardly believe that they'd agreed to this in the first place.

It had all started with Gary finally confronting Sheila about the tension between them, which had promptly ended in a sloppy make-out session, which then ended in her telling him very firmly that she had no intention of leaving her husband.

Which had then led to the odd realization that Gary had never expected her to in the first place, and then the question: if not that, what _did_ he want her to do? Have an affair with him? Break the Monarch's — no, Malcolm's — heart? He didn't want that, either.

So Gary then decided to confront Malcolm, which had been far more awkward.

And yet, had _also_ somehow ended in a sloppy make-out session, Gary promptly questioning his sexuality (and simultaneously discovering his boss had apparently always been bisexual), and then very nervously having to explain this to Sheila, who ultimately seemed to find it amusing, more than anything.

They had undeniable chemistry between them. All three of them, in any possible configuration. And the relationship between the Monarch and his queen had always been an open one. So really, how strange was it to consider a more unusual arrangement? A _monarch a trois_ , so to speak?

And that had led to the discussion at the dinner table, which had ended in no less than three instances of Sheila correcting her husband on referring to Gary as '21', four awkward attempts from his boss at flirting with him, three awkward attempts from _Sheila_ at flirting with him, and Gary going to bed with the very strange, giddy knowledge that he was now technically in a relationship with _two people_. One of whom was a _man_.

His boss.

The Monarch. _Malcolm_.

What had he gotten himself into?

When Gary woke up the next morning, his first thought was that it had all been a dream. Some kind of fucked up manifestation of his subconscious letting him know that his hero worship had gone too far, and was edging dangerously into homoerotic territory. Also, that he desperately needed to get over being in love with his boss's wife.

The thought of that was deeply disappointing to consider, but he kept it in mind as the most likely theory as he got up and shuffled into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, putting his hair up in a low ponytail. The alternative was absolutely ludicrous, after all. He checked his face briefly in the mirror — time for a shave soon — and headed for the kitchen.

He was then intercepted by the Monarch, still clad in his usual morning robe, coming down the stairs and promptly _smacking him on the ass._ "Good morning, _honey_."

Well, that sure as hell answered _that_.

Gary stood there dumbfoundedly, and Malcolm at least had the decency to stop in his tracks a few steps ahead of him, looking timidly over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't overstepped his bounds.

"Was that okay?" He asked, hesitantly.

It took a few moments for Gary's brain to start functioning again, but he nodded dumbly as soon as it did, stuttering a little. "Yeah. Um— yeah. That was fine." He laughed awkwardly. "Hello to you too. _Honey._ " Another awkward laugh. Shit, he was being _weird_. Play it cool, play it cool.

He made finger guns, which was quite possibly one of the farthest things he could've done from cool in that moment. But at least Malcolm laughed it off just as awkwardly, and returned the gesture. Okay. Situation salvaged.

They both headed into the kitchen, then, to find the missus at the table on her laptop. That in itself wasn't unusual, but she was also clad in full Guild uniform, which meant she probably had a Council meeting at some point.

It then hit him, admiring her stern features at rest in the morning sunlight, the way her neat hair framed her face, that this was really happening. Really, truly happening. No more pining. No more stolen glances over breakfast, or questions about what could've been.

They were actually dating, in some respect. And for as absurd as that was, Gary was starting to get kind of excited about it.

"Hey, honey," the Monarch greeted her, causing her to look up at the both of them, smiling warmly in recognition. She got up from her chair, crossing the room to stand on the tips of her toes, planting a kiss of greeting on her husband's lips.

She then turned and, with a visible effort to make it look casual, planted a curt kiss on Gary's lips as well. Brief, yet warm, wet, and tasting faintly of newly applied lipstick.

Gary stared, stunned into silence for the second time that morning. Wow. Now that he wasn't trying to hide it anymore, he was — really, definitely more than a little in love with her.

Sheila exchanged a brief, nervous look with Malcolm over the lack of response, before both of them looked back to him.

"Was that okay?" She asked slowly, inclining her head, uncertainty in her voice.

"Yeah, it was," Gary forced the words out, laughing with a flutter in his chest. How could that have been anything _but_ okay?

—

As it turned out, Sheila had needed to leave for a meeting on Meteor Majeure — despite her recent telecommuting, there were some things that needed to be handled in person, and apparently this particular meeting was one of them. Which, of course, left him completely alone in the house that afternoon.

With Malcolm.

Which was every bit as awkward as he'd hoped it wouldn't be. They'd watched the latest Game of Thrones episode together, which had been comfortable enough, only to be left sitting on the couch with the TV off afterward, not looking at each other.

"Ssso," Malcolm said hesitantly, eyes darting between him and the floor.

"So," Gary replied in turn, unable to think of anything to complete the sentence.

A few more beats of silence passed between them, awkwardly glancing at each other every so often.

Gary was beginning to _notice_ things, he realized. Just little things about the man, like the strong curve of his jaw, the angle of his nose. Or the way that the contours of his muscles really showed through the tight spandex of his Monarch outfit, when they caught the light just right.

He'd never thought about another man like this, let alone his _boss_. The fundamental construction of a man was completely unlike the soft curves of every woman he'd grown up fantasizing about. There were no supple breasts to be found on the Monarch, nor plump, delicate lips — only wiry, toned limbs and a well-manicured beard.

And yet, it was kind of turning him on.

Malcolm was the first one to break the silence, finally looking up at him for more than a few seconds with a weak shrug of his shoulders. "So, do you want to, like, mess around, or—"

" _Yes_ ," Gary said, a little too eagerly.

And just like that, he was on his back against the couch, with a tongue in his mouth and the Monarch's nimble hands pushing up the front of his shirt. Gary moaned out of surprise more than anything while gloved fingers spread across his abdomen, feeling a swell of affection as they lovingly traced the letters of his tattoo.

This was actually happening. He was kissing his boss and _enjoying_ it, obediently sucking on that tongue, running his smooth palms over the man's slim, angular hips and feeling a rush of excitement at the facial hair brushing his own stubble. Something about the knowledge that he was kissing another man, the sheer taboo of it, was already getting him hard.

He could _definitely_ get used to this.

A few minutes of clumsy groping and aimless kissing passed before a skinny leg came to part Gary's thighs, its knee rubbing firmly against his erection in a way that sent another shock of giddiness through him. He broke the kiss only to pant for much-needed air, looking down at it, as well as the impressive tent in his jeans.

When he looked back up, he found Malcolm looking at him with a surprisingly sheepish expression. It was actually kind of — god, it felt so _weird_ to think of him that way — _cute_.

"Is this okay?" He asked, unsure.

Gary couldn't help but laugh breathlessly at that, and even more at the clueless look of surprise his reaction earned. They were both going to kill him at this rate.

"Yeah _duh_ , it's okay," he finally replied, grinning from ear to ear, grabbing a fistful of black spandex and yanking the man back down for another kiss.


	9. Gen: Brock As Sheila's Moral Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a headcanon that Brock has no idea how to handle someone crying. Someone sent a prompt of the Monarch actually using it against him.
> 
> "some extra weird villain gets the idea to have someone cry to distract Brock and it ACTUALLY WORKS. (the monarch. of course its the monarch. why is that a surprise). Brock trapped at the edge of a battle because he cant abandon a crying Sheila who has a firm hold of his sleeve. Not shippy, its a trick, and rusty is just OH JESUS CHRIST BROCK COME BE USEFUL and hes I CANT FUCKING MOVE"

"Remind me again, _why_ are you not coming to my rescue?"

For something like an hour and a half, now, Rusty Venture had been dangling over a pit of hungry alligators in the Monarch's lair. Maybe longer. It was always easy to lose track of time when you were hanging from a rope, limbs bound. But that was his best guess.

His faithful bodyguard had broken into the Cocoon about halfway through, ready to fight. But where Rusty had been waiting for an easy, routine rescue, the Monarch had apparently prepared ridiculous 'countermeasures' in advance.

Somehow, they'd figured out that the man had absolutely no idea how to deal with someone crying, especially when it came to women. As a result, said countermeasures had come in the form of one dramatically sobbing Dr. Girlfriend, who had abruptly grabbed onto Brock's arm and pulled him down into a chair for moral support. For the better part of an hour.

"Listen, Doc, uh... she's got... a lot of problems," Brock replied, looking more awkward than Rusty had ever seen him in his life. "I can't really... you know..."

He had to admit, it'd been amusing at first. And at the very least, the henchmen had been 'kind' enough to let him down to stretch, or take a piss — Guild policy, actually, after some protagonist had filed a huge lawsuit from getting a blood clot in their leg. But he was starting to get impatient.

"And comforting _her_ is more important than _getting me the hell down from here?_ " Rusty griped, squirming against the starchy ropes that were presently digging into his arms.

Brock, apparently, did not have an answer to that, something that probably had to do with the puppy-esque eyes that Dr. Girlfriend was currently giving him.

The world's most irritable sigh rattled out of Rusty's lungs. "Okay, you know what? Let me down. I need to take a leak."

"Seriously? What are you, a racehorse?" the Monarch complained, nonetheless waving his henchmen to cut him free. "That's like your fifth freaking 'potty break' in the past hour!"

"Don't care. Guild policy," Rusty stated simply.

The scientist rubbed grumpily at the rope marks on his arms as soon as he was released, shooting a glare at the henchmen that had flanked him to escort him to the restroom. He'd asked to be let down just to get a change of pace from this malarkey, but you know what? This was getting ridiculous.

So, with one last reproachful look at his cringing bodyguard 20 feet away, Rusty broke away from the henchmen (who did little other than look confused), stomping up to the Monarch on his stupid little throne, sucker punching him directly in the jaw.

And that was the story of how Rusty Venture rescued his own god damn _self_ for once, thank-you-very-much.


	10. (NSFW implied) Rusty/The Monarch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ladyofdecember asked for Monarch/Rusty!

"That was weird. We can both agree that was weird, right?"

Rusty glanced over at the man slowly fitting himself back into his spandex, one foot at a time. Then he looked down at himself and the speedsuit pooled around his legs, as well as the used condom on the floor a couple feet away.

Everything felt a little hazy. Dreamlike, though the memories of what they'd just done were still floating around his mind in horrifyingly sharp relief.

His eyes shifted towards the ceiling. "Yeah. That was... definitely _weird._ "

He felt the Monarch's uncertain gaze on him, then heard the shifting and clinking of golden armor being clipped on, piece by piece.

"So you're not gonna, like, _tell_ anyone about this, right? Not my wife, or—"

"You think I actually _want_ people to know I slept with my arch-nemesis?" Rusty laughed brazenly, which won him a look somewhere between ire and surprise.

"Sooo... you actually do think of me as your arch-nemesis?" The Monarch asked, uncharacteristically timid, steepling his fingers in a bashful gesture that was almost, _almost_ something he'd call cute.

"Why the hell not? It's not like anyone else is as intent on ruining my life as you are." Rusty bent down, pulling up his speedsuit and zipping it up in the front, buckling it around his waist as he stood.

He headed for the door, turning to speak, only to be caught completely off guard by the look he was getting — the Monarch's expression was something he could only relate to a kid being told they were going to Brisbyland. Rusty hadn't been aware he was dropping some sort of earth-shattering compliment by calling him something as simple as his _arch-nemesis_ , but apparently that'd been the case.

"Look, uh... I'm... going to go now," he said awkwardly.

" _Call me,_ " the Monarch hissed through his disgustingly happy smile.

"What the hell did I just get myself into?" Rusty muttered, slamming the door behind him.


	11. Gen: Venture Family Game Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "How about Rusty and Brock dealing with a loud thunderstorm? Maybe dealing with their power going out and Hank and Dean not knowing how to just chill for some reason?"
> 
> Not shippy at all, though you could read it as Brusty if you were so inclined.

"Yeah, generator's not working either," Brock announced as he stepped through the doorway, drawing the hood on his raincoat back. "Looks like we're stuck like this 'til they send somebody out to take care of it."

Rusty and the boys both groaned in unison, the superscientist letting his head fall backwards to the wall he'd been sitting against with a quiet thud.

The electricity had been out for over an hour, now, and if anything, the storm only seemed to be getting worse. Thanks to Brock having been willing to brave the weather in his Charger, they at least knew that the source of the outage was a downed power line a couple miles down the road.

The Compound had a source of back-up power, of course, but it was so old that the fuel was probably rusting the inside of the tank by now. No wonder Brock hadn't been able to get the damn thing to work.

In other words, it was out of their hands for the time being. All they could do was wait until the storm went through, and pass the time however they could in the interim.

"Well—" Rusty said slowly, pulling himself to his feet, only to flinch at a sudden crack of thunder in the distance. "—let's go get the board games out, then."

Immediately, both Hank and Dean perked up. Brock looked ambivalent, bordering on disgruntled.

"All right! Can we play Scrabble?"

Rusty sighed. "No, Hank. The last time we played Scrabble, you cheated like a dog."

"That doesn't mean I'll do it this time!" Hank retorted, following his father along to the living room. "Besides, you always cheat at board games!"

"Don't accuse your father of cheating. Those are the words of a sore loser."

"Well, _I_ think we should play Monopoly," Dean remarked cheerfully, a few steps behind. "That's a smart people's game."

"Boring and takes too long," Brock grunted. "I don't wanna be stuck here for 4 hours because you and your dad won't stop fighting over Boardwalk." He then added in a quieter voice, "Like last time."

Dean looked disappointed, leaving Rusty to speak in a sarcastic tone. "Well then, smart guy, what do _you_ want to play?" 

Brock hesitated thoughtfully.

"Think the boys are too young to learn how to play poker?"

The boys both looked at each other excitedly. Rusty gave some noncommittal grumble, pulling an aged deck of cards out of the cupboard.

—

The first third of the game was spent teaching them how to play. Both were surprisingly quick to catch on — even Hank, who kept accidentally saying "Go fish!" for the first few hands.

The second third was spent with Rusty getting into increasingly aggressive rounds of bluffing with Brock, only to fail miserably each time with his complete absence of a poker face. The boys spent most of it staring bemusedly.

Which, of course, led to the final third of the game culminating in the superscientist throwing down his hand and angrily stomping off to sit in the corner of the room, sulking in a way that was entirely appropriate for a grown man.

Brock sighed at Doc's all too predictable reaction, leaning forward to snack on a few of the gummy bears they'd settled on as a replacement for poker chips, having accumulated the vast majority of them over the course of the game from his adept play. It wasn't the first time they'd played poker together — Brock was skilled at it, but Rusty was awful at poker, and had a horrible temper when it came to losing.

Dean got up and sat beside him on the floor now that they'd finished, looking a little sheepish after his father's outburst. "Well... that was fun. Right, guys? I had fun."

"Yeah," Brock said, putting a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder and giving it a gentle shake, earning a smile. "Both of you picked up on it pretty fast."

"I looked pretty cool on that one hand, right?" Hank repositioned to sit on the opposite side of him, never wanting to be left out when it came to getting Brock's attention. "You were all, 'full house' — and I was like, 'bam, full house, but with _two queens!_ '"

Brock grinned, neglecting to mention that it'd been one of _very_ few hands Hank had won to begin with. "That _was_ pretty smooth."

"And then in that last hand, when you and Pop were—"

Hank never finished that sentence — deafening thunder suddenly tore through the skies, loud enough to rattle the house, and Brock abruptly found himself with two pairs of trembling arms clenched tightly around his middle.

He looked down. Both of the boys were holding onto him, wide-eyed and shaking with fear.

Once his shoulders relaxed from the initial surprise, Brock let out a heavy sigh — it was far from the first time he'd had the boys clinging to him out of terror, but it was usually from something that was an actual threat. Like mummies, or werewolves.

"Christ— Boys, _relax_. It's just thunder. It can't hurt you."

That did little to quiet their shaking. So Brock grunted in resignation, wrapping one muscular arm around each Venture son, pulling both of them near to his chest in a tight hug. "C'mon. I know you learned about this crap from your learning beds. It's just, uh— molecules in the clouds, or whatever—"

"Water and ice move against each other and create electrical charge," Dean mumbled as if by rote memorization, snuggling up closer to him, still looking visibly afraid.

"Yeah. That. Nothing to be scared of."

"But what if lightning hit the compound?" Hank looked up at him in concern.

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. They were kids. Sheltered, dumb kids. "Then it hits the compound, starts a little fire, we put it out. Not a big deal."

That was seemingly a good enough answer, and they soon fell into silence.

But just when they'd seemingly begun to relax a little, thunder shook the home again, and he felt both boys redouble their frightened hugging efforts. One of them even whimpered at the tremendous sound.

 _Wait._ Brock paused, glancing down at the twins huddled against his body — that had been far too distant a noise to come from either of them. _So who—_

He looked over his shoulder. Doc was still sitting in the corner, facing away from them, but he could see the man trembling slightly, undoubtedly trying to suppress his reaction for his own dignity. He was desensitized enough to take a lot of things well, even things that would horrify ordinary people, but apparently, sudden loud noises and darkness still got to him.

 _Sigh._ "Doc, get over here."

Rusty looked at him like a deer in headlights. "W—what?"

Brock jerked his head in invitation. He'd say it one more time, and if Doc was too stupid to catch on, that wasn't his problem. "C'mere."

The scientist reluctantly got to his feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in his speedsuit as he glumly wandered over to sit beside his bodyguard.

Brock spread his arms out wide enough to encompass both Rusty as well as his sons, pulling him into the impromptu group hug, earning a noise of surprise and alarm. Doc wasn't exactly a touchy-feely guy — Brock wasn't either, but if he was going to be serving as a glorified teddy bear to the boys, he might as well do it for the whole family.

Gradually, after a minute or two, he felt the man begin to relax, surprisingly quiet for once. He even started to reciprocate the hug, one arm hesitantly bending around Brock's waist. The boys were calming down, too.

And Brock, meanwhile, was coming to the realization that he actually didn't mind this situation like he thought he would. It felt nice: having their body heat so near to his, hearing their breathing, knowing that he was their source of comfort, of safety.

So they stayed like that for a while, the Venture family huddling together in the dark, rain distantly beating against the windows.


	12. Implied Brock/Rusty: Rusty as a girl, Brock as boys' father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "imagine a AU were rusty is female you think she'd take the twins baby daddy identity to the grave if it was someone that everyone knew and who would it most likely be in theory".

"You ever think about telling them the truth? About their father?"

Dr. Venture looked up from her work in surprise, glancing over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. "Why? It's irrelevant. What difference would it even make?"

Brock sighed, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall. "I was just thinking — everybody knows by now, Doc. They're the only ones who don't. Shouldn't they get to—"

"It's _irrelevant,_ " she repeated pointedly, an edge of irritation to her voice. "They've never needed to know. Hell, they probably still believe it was my old bodyguard, or God, or something."

Not for the first time, Brock considered just telling them himself. She couldn't stop him. It was his right, wasn't it? And they deserved to know, didn't they?

But then he thought about the questions. Because there _would_ be questions, inevitably. Ones that were hard to answer. Like, _why didn't you tell us sooner?_ Or, _did you not want us? Why aren't you and Mom together?_

_Why did you abandon us for SPHINX?_

"It's not like you ever _wanted_ to be a father, anyway," she added curtly.

And not for the first time, Brock dropped the subject without pushing it further.


	13. Hank/Triana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me to make Hank/Triana happen.

Rather against his will, Dean had grown up to be what he'd always dreaded — a superscientist.

Sure, he'd tried on the whole journalist thing for a few years. He'd even majored in journalism, with supplementary classes on various scientific matters, half out of personal interest, half out of his father's insistence. But the Venture name was like a curse, dragging him by the heels into a destiny he never wanted, especially with his father's retirement.

And after so long, he had finally, begrudgingly accepted it. What other fate was there for him? He could never run from this, no matter how hard he tried. The best thing to do, now, was to make peace with it the same way his father had.

Which is how Dean found himself at the age of 25, thinning hair and dubiously happy to be running a multi-billion-dollar corporation, gloomily sorting through paperwork from the Guild of Calamitous Intent with his dad's quasi-finished projects scattered across his work desk, all half-baked ideas that would probably ultimately amount to nothing.

But this isn't a story about Dean.

No, this is a story about his bodyguard. Not Brock — Rusty had somehow managed to convince him into retirement as well.

This is a story about Hank.

Compared to Dean, Hank had, more or less, happily cruised through life riding whatever waves of adversity life had thrown at him. Working as a pizza boy had turned into a promising internship at one of Wide Wale's shell companies, only to ultimately turn disastrous after he broke up with Sirena. Unemployed and aimless at 21, he'd finally turned to a career choice he'd been debating his entire life — becoming a top secret agent ninja bodyguard Batman.

Well, that wasn't how anyone else would describe it. But 'bodyguard' was accurate, at least. He'd somehow convinced Brock to teach him some of the tricks of his trade, largely by playing on Brock's heartstrings with how he wouldn't be able to protect the boys forever — and who better to do the job than a replacement trained by the man himself?

Years of rigorous training followed. It wasn't exactly the same as going through OSI training, but it was the next best thing — Hank had come out the other side as a surprisingly competent bodyguard, with a lot more muscle than he'd had to begin with. Not anywhere approaching the bulk of the man whom he'd come to think of as a kind of godfather, but Hank's was a leaner, streamlined muscle. (Much easier to fit through an open air vent, Brock had consoled him.)

And they were the Venture brothers, after all. Was he really going to let Dean languish away in some stuffy old superscience environment without his brother there to keep him company, and to protect him from those who would do him harm? Obviously not.

"I'm going out for a coffee," Dean eventually sighed in defeat after twirling his pen for the hundredth time, standing up from the table and grumpily adjusting his bright red speedsuit. "Want anything?"

"Nahh," Hank waved his hand, leaning back against a nearby table in the lab. "But shouldn't I come with? I'm your bodyguard, right?"

"I'll just be a minute. There's a Starbucks a couple blocks from here."

Hank had a feeling he was making a mistake, here. However, he didn't really care enough to rectify it. Despite whatever little sense he'd gained from his age, things like 'taking precautions' were still for losers. "Alright. See ya."

They hadn't had many 'evildoers' come after them yet, after all, despite the fact that undoubtedly many were lining up for the opportunity — Dean had only taken over as head of Ventech about a month ago, so there must've been a lot of bureaucratic red tape in the Guild holding them back. (Hank wasn't sure if he was disappointed or glad.)

Dean waved weakly at him and exited the room, leaving his brother by his lonesome in the wide laboratory. It wasn't as empty as the first time he'd seen it, by far — it'd since been cluttered up by leftover projects from both JJ, his father, and Dean alike. But none of the various machines looked particularly interesting to him.

He humphed a little, feeling the boredom already starting to creep up on him at the loss of even the smallest distraction. Maybe he should try to make something? Pop had always treated him like he hadn't the slightest mind for science, but Hank had always thought he would be good at it if he just tried —

Right as he'd been about to make the ill-advised decision of picking up a screwdriver from Dean's work table, Hank was suddenly interrupted by the very space in the middle of the room contorting. It shifted and twisted, rippling ominously, prompting him to take a few steps back towards the wall.

Before he could even open his mouth to question it, the same space burbled and tore open in a rift of unholy violet light: pried apart by writhing black tentacles like so many great Lovecraftian fingers, making way for the dark silhouette of a woman floating through the portal's opening.

She gravitated through the air and downwards, with long cascades of dark hair and her eyes alight with the same demonic purple glow, voice booming. "Prepare yourself, Dean Venture! The Dark Sorceress has come to destroy your immortal soul!"

Hank stared up at her, mystified for a few long moments, before he finally thought to respond.

"Uhh— sorry, he's not here."

The portal abruptly closed up with a faint shriek, the light evaporating from her eyes as her heels delicately reached the ground. She blinked a few times, staring at him. " _Hank?_ Is that you?"

No longer silhouetted against the rift, it was far easier to make out the details of her figure — fairly standard supervillain costume fare in black and lavender, except with far more ruffles and black thorn accents. The cape was a nice touch. She looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn't until he looked at the straight bangs, dark purple lipstick and bored expression that it finally clicked into place.

"Hey— you're that girl Dean had a crush on!" Hank grinned like an idiot. "Dr. O's daughter! Triana, right?"

"I prefer to go by _The Dark Sorceress_ nowadays." She smirked at him. "And what are you supposed to be, his bodyguard?"

"Yup," he said proudly, puffing his chest out. "You could say I keep things pretty under lock and key around here."

"Ha."

He watched as she strode towards Dean's desk, brushing a few papers aside with one long, painted fingernail, looking little other than bored with the whole scenario.

"So... you're like, a supervillain now?" Throughout the years, he'd always wondered about what exactly motivated a supervillain to choose that path. "Wasn't Dr. O — I mean, your dad — always a good guy?"

"My dad doesn't get a say in what I do anymore," she said calmly, touching some document and leaving it smoldering with eerily bright flames. Hank felt too impressed with the display to object. "And there's not a lot of 'good' work out there for sorceresses. People get scared by, you know, the black nail polish and the brimstone."

"That doesn't have to stop you," he suggested cheerfully.

She slowly looked over her shoulder at him, lips curling into a smile. Hank felt his heart skip a beat.

"God, I always thought you were kind of cute." Triana clicked her fingers neatly and, as if from out of thin air, a thick black vine studded with vicious thorns snared its way around his body — as thick as his arm, with the strength of what felt like iron. "Guess I get to kidnap you, since your brother's not around."

Hank blanched in surprise, then put on a weak grin. "Or you cooouuuld... _not_ do that?"

"I'm a bad guy," she said calmly. "It's kind of what I do."

—

Triana, for all the smoke and tentacles and doomsaying, was surprisingly courteous as a hostess. Hank had been no stranger to a variety of makeshift prisons over the years, and the room he'd been put in, though one of its walls was a set of sturdy iron bars, was adorned in comfortable shades of purple and black. Very gothic.

"You're not gonna take my wristwatch?" He'd asked naively as she'd slammed the door shut, neatly locking it behind her. "I could call for help."

She'd offered a shrug of her shoulders with her back to him, though it was hard to see behind her cape. With another snap of her fingers, the vine keeping his arms bound disappeared into vapor. "Sure. He needs to know you're here, anyway. Otherwise, the ransom won't work."

"There's a ransom?"

"Being a supervillain isn't cheap, Hank."

He looked down at his newly freed limbs, then his watch, then back up to the figure disappearing towards the center of the lair, eventually coming to lounge in the middle of a chair designed to look like tentacles opening in a spiral. In the distance, he could see moving shadows in the dark — henchmen or henchwomen, maybe? Or perhaps something even more sinister.

How long had it been since he'd last seen Triana, he wondered? Over half a decade, at least. And while he hadn't understood Dean's obsession at the time, he was starting to come around. Triana was oddly seductive in a way that was hard to resist, all dark smiles and honeyed words and spiderweb lace. He'd barely had any time to think about women at all with the training he'd been doing, not since Sirena.

In fact, Brock had given him some advice on that — what was it, again? Never fall for the enemy?

Well, it wasn't his fault if the enemy was _smoking hot_ , was it?

"Hank! Come in, Hank!" A high-strung voice cut through his thoughts, Dean's panicked face lighting up his wristwatch's tiny screen. "Where the heck ARE you?"

"I got kidnapped," he replied calmly, sitting down on the purple chaise lounge that furnished his cell, as if he were casually explaining how he'd stopped for lunch on the way to pick up the dry cleaning.

"What? But— but, so did I! The Monarch picked me up on the way home!"

Ah, _heck._

"Well, I'll figure out a way to break out of here and come rescue you. He's kidnapped you like a thousand times already—"

"As ransom! Or because he kidnapped Dad! This is the first time he's kidnapped just _me!_ " Dean whimpered. "I think he said he wants to feed me to a snake!"

Hank rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine! Relax, Dean-O! I'll call Brock and get him to do it."

His brother looked marginally less anxious, eyes darting from side to side. " _Thank_ you."

"Yeah, yeah."

He ended the call and instead dialed Brock. Thankfully, it never took long for the man to pick up. Even now, his ex-bodyguard was always worrying about him and his brother — it'd taken weeks after his retirement for him to stop checking in a few times daily.

"Hank?" Brock asked questioningly. "Everything okay?"

Hank did his best to smile. "Hey. Uh— so Dean just got kidnapped."

"So go rescue him," Brock replied bluntly, as if it were a practiced response.

"That's kinda the thing? See, I got kidnapped too, but by a _different_ supervillain. It's this girl—"

Brock cut him off with a sigh. "So use what I taught you. You can get out of there just fine. Every holding cell's got a critical weakness. Check the bars, or loose bricks, or knock the ceiling out."

Hank grinned sheepishly. "She's a _really_ pretty girl, though. And I think she's into me."

A heavy silence followed his words.

Then, a look of realization flashed over Brock's features, his voice going deadpan. "You want me to go save your brother for you so you can score with a hot girl."

"Kinda, yeah? Besides, even if I got outta here, I don't know where we are. I think I might be in some alternate dimension—"

"Is that Hank? What's he want this time?" His father's voice suddenly cut into the conversation, and then his face soon after, trying to push Brock out of the way of the camera. "Is he trying to get you out of retirement? You said you were done with this kind of thing."

"Both of your sons just got kidnapped, Doc—"

"Then let them clean up their own messes! You're busy!"

Brock sighed irately, easily pushing Rusty out of the way with one large hand. "Listen. I'll go take care of Dean. But you _owe_ me."

The screen clicked off soon after, leaving Hank sitting in silence.

He glanced away from the watch to Triana, sitting on her throne and looking bored. A cold glow was filtering in from a skylight positioned some twenty feet above, catching twinkling motes of dust and putting her features in sharper relief, not unlike a spotlight.

She looked gorgeous. Otherworldly, in more ways than one. And it was time to make his move.

"Sooo... turns out my rescue is gonna take a while," he said boldly, getting up and heading to the front of his cell to grip the metal bars. "You gonna torture me or something?"

"Hmm." Triana turned her head to consider him, brushing her dark hair away from her face. "Why, do you _want_ me to?"

"I might," Hank coyly replied. "Kinda wanted to see what the _Dark Sorceress_ has in store for her handsome, dashing, _totally_ helpless prisoner."

A long moment passed before her lips curled into a thin smirk, Hank's chest fluttering over the way she was suddenly looking at him like a piece of meat.

"Well," she said slowly, crossing one leg over the other. "That _does_ sound like fun."

He felt his face abruptly break into a stupidly eager grin, even as more black vines materialized to trap his limbs.

—

It was somewhere around 9 at night when Hank finally arrived home, covered in an array of bruises and small rips in his clothing. Dean had been worried sick — Brock had rescued him quickly enough, but had enigmatically said Hank was 'on his own', for whatever reason.

Not that seeing him like this didn't give Dean even more cause for worry, rushing to his feet as Hank stumbled through the door, his brother grinning in a way that was entirely contrary to the rest of his appearance.

"Hank! What happened? Are you okay?"

"Oh. Hey, Dean." Hank was smiling like a dope: closer-up, he could see that not only were some of the bruises hickeys, but that dark lipstick was smeared across the torn neck of his shirt. "Hey, you remember Triana, right?"

Dean's mind went a little blank. Why was Hank bringing up his old crush? "Um— yes?"

"Turns out she's, like, a super evil supervillain lady now." Hank stumbled past him, unbuttoning his shirt and loosening his collar.

"What?" Dean couldn't help himself, gawking. He could hardly picture it — sweet Triana, so perfect, so pure, so gothic — alright, maybe now that he was an adult, he could actually see that happening. "Was she the one who kidnapped you?"

"Yup." His brother's smile was starting to get unnerving. "Took me to her spooky demon realm and everything."

"Um... what did she _do_ to you?"

"Oh, nothing." Hank kicked off his shoes like a child, not caring where they landed. "We just _totally_ had sex."

In true Venture style, Dean felt his brain break a little.

"W—what?"

"G'night, Dean-O."

" _What?_ " Dean repeated, a little more desperately, but Hank was already heading off towards his bedroom, whistling cheerfully as he went.

So Dean — without much else to do, Dean headed for the liquor cabinet.


	14. (NSFW) Brock/Rusty: Rimming, Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "No idea if you're still doing this, but I actually had a dream about Rusty convincing Brock to ditch the twins on Halloween trick or treating so he could eat Brock's ass. My subconscious is weird, I guess."
> 
> Happy Halloween!

Brock had known Doc was full of shit from the start, of course. He'd told the boys that they were going to finally go out trick-or-treating, made up some excuse about feeling sick at the last minute, then dumped the responsibility on Orpheus, who — fortunately enough — had already been planning to escort Triana and her friends.

But Brock knew how to tell between 'Doc is sick' and 'Doc is pretending to be sick.' The main difference was that when he was _actually_ sick, he never shut the fuck up about it, and made sure everyone knew exactly how miserable he was feeling.

Which meant, as he watched the man cheerfully waving to the boys as they walked down the road away from the compound, then watched him switch the security system back on with equal cheer once they were far enough away from it, that this was entirely an excuse to get the boys out of the house. However, as for what Doc's ulterior motive was, he couldn't quite tell. Yet.

"So," Brock grunted, his arms folded across his chest, as Rusty turned to face him. "What the hell're you planning?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Rusty asked, placing a hand on his chest for effect, his voice filled with faux surprise and hurt. "You think I'd just abandon my sons on a holiday? On _purpose?_ "

"Yeah," Brock replied bluntly, "kinda do."

That was enough to make Rusty give up on his act, deflating a little into his usual irritable self. "Give me a break, they've been nonstop lately. I just thought we could use a little 'us' time."

Both of Brock's eyebrows went up as the scientist approached him, though he couldn't help the growing smirk tugging at his lips. "Wait, you blew the boys off just so we could have sex?"

"Actually," Rusty said pointedly, returning that smirk as he leaned into him, suggestively tracing his fingers across Brock's abs. "to be more specific, I was thinking I could eat your ass."

Brock opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

Rusty fluttered his eyelashes, to absolutely no effect. He sort of hated it when Doc tried to act sexy — it almost never worked. Not that he _couldn't_ be sexy, but it usually came in the moments when he wasn't _trying_ to be, like letting his glasses slide down to the base of his nose, or the little noises he made when Brock kissed him in just the right spots.

"You're serious."

"Completely serious."

"Well," Brock said gruffly after a moment's pause, bending down to scoop the scientist off of his feet and earning a surprised laugh, "what the hell are we waiting for?"

—

"I told you this isn't worth it. We come here every year and he always gives us nothing but crap, you said it yourself."

"Oh, come on, White!" Billy pulled his empty candy bag up, wiping at the smoldering edge where it'd been singed by one of the many lasers stationed on the grounds. "It's like, practically a tradition at this point. We go to the Venture Compound, hang out, steal some candy while he's not looking. It's fun."

"I'm just saying, we could've gone to a party," Pete said limply, straightening out the wrinkles in his outfit. They'd gone for a movie villains theme, this year. "That Chucky costume of yours is probably good enough to win a contest, win us some actual money—"

"Just ring the doorbell again, will you?"

"I am. He's not answering."

Billy sighed. "Then ring it some more. He should know we're coming by now, it's like every _year—_ "

"Oh, for the love of—" Pete begrudgingly tried the door, only to be surprised by it opening without incident. "Hey, he left the door unlocked."

They both slowly looked at each other, then at the door left ajar.

"You think he'll be pissed if we go in without even asking?" Billy said, wringing his hands nervously. More than Rusty's reaction, he was concerned about the family's bodyguard.

"Shoulda locked his door, then," Pete replied, opening the door wider and stepping inside.

—

"Ahh— _fuck,_ just like that..."

They were in a slightly awkward position, in more ways than one. Brock on his front, sprawled across one of the lab tables, clumsily straddling it with his legs spread apart — Rusty kneeling in a lab chair behind him, spreading his ass with both hands. The cold metal was making him regret not going for a bed, but Rusty had been insistent on getting Brock naked and onto any flat surface he could find as quickly as possible — and he hadn't exactly minded the enthusiasm.

Plus, he was quickly starting to warm up with Doc's face pressed eagerly between his thighs, a hot tongue running along the stretch of sensitive skin between his ass and his cock, pausing only to suck at the underside of his balls. Something about him taking charge like this was oddly exciting — normally it was Brock pushing Rusty onto surfaces and making demands, not the other way around. He could get used to it.

As Doc's tongue began to spread him open, pushing inside, he squirmed pleasantly at the sensation of wet muscle nudging up against sensitive walls. It felt weird as hell, but at the same time left the neglected erection hanging between his legs growing thicker and firmer, swelling with arousal. After a moment, one of Rusty's hands came up to cup him, distractedly squeezing and tugging his long shaft.

Brock shuddered, then, at the wet brush of Rusty's lips up against him, feeling himself clenching on the slick appendage instinctively, grasping a little tighter at the edges of the table. An unbidden, guttural groan worked its way from his throat when the man sucked gently, twisting his tongue to stroke at tender nerves — he tipped his head back, exhaling firmly through his nose, trying to steel himself as his legs began to tremble.

A few minutes passed, alternating between almost agonizing slowness and quick little strokes of his tongue and hand alike, before Brock couldn't take anymore and twisted away from him with a soft moan of oversensitivity, already dripping precome onto the cool metal surface beneath. Rusty drew back, letting go of him, hand instead caressing his inner thigh in a manner that could almost be considered tender.

"Alright, Doc, that's enough, something else..." Brock grunted, trying to still his quivering knees, repositioning himself to lay on his back instead and drawing his ankles up.

"Good, because my tongue was starting to get numb," Rusty replied bluntly. From here, Brock could easily see the shape of the man's own erection pressing against the fabric underneath his belt — he grinned, knowing he was making Doc wait for it.

"Really? 'Cause I was kinda hoping you'd suck my dick next."

Rusty squinted his eyes disapprovingly at him, making quite the production out of it — first rolling his eyes, then letting out an exaggerated sigh. He nonetheless leaned forward again to grasp his thick, still-leaking cock at the base, flicking his tired tongue at the flared head. "For someone who's supposed to be working for _me_ , you make a lot of demands."

Brock only grinned wider, letting his head loll back against the solid metal underneath him as Rusty's hot, gloriously tight mouth closed firmly over the tip of his cock.

—

"—but did you really have to go as a white guy with dreadlocks?"

"Listen, Billy — the movie just came out, and it's not as if I get much to choose from on the albino representation front—"

"You could've gone as Powder or something!"

"He's not even a villain!" Pete turned the corner, pushing open the door to the lab in front of them, then freezing a few steps in as his brain registered the scene before them. "Uh—"

"White, I'm just saying—" Billy looked up, following his gaze, the words dying in his throat.

Well, they'd located the elusive Dr. Venture. They'd been searching the compound for the past 15 minutes, finding neither hide nor hair of him or his family, having no less than two arguments about The Matrix and one about theoretical physics in the process, as well as going through six fun-sized Crunch bars and three fun-sized Twix bars.

And now, they'd finally discovered him in his lab, kneeling neatly in a chair and eagerly — though with visible difficulty — deep throating his very naked bodyguard. At the sound of the lab doors, however, he lifted his head in surprise, slipping his glasses back on, eyes bugging out a little at seeing Pete and Billy standing there.

"Um— Hi, Rust," Pete choked out with an awkward, uncharacteristically high pitched giggle, struggling to process what he was seeing. "Happy— Halloween?"

"What the hell are you two doing here?" Rusty deadpanned, red-faced yet trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, as if there wasn't a massive cock less than two inches from his face. "Get out of my lab."

"Well, we wanted to hang out, but seeing as you—" Billy kind of stumbled on the words, staring between the scientist and his bodyguard like a trainwreck he couldn't look away from. "—guys— seem to be — busy, uh, I guess we'll—"

"Get _out,_ " Rusty repeated firmly, voice rising in pitch with his irritation. Any remaining desire to stay and ask questions quickly died as Brock sat up on the table, audibly _growling_ over his blowjob being interrupted.

As the two of them quickly turned tail and left, Pete cocked his head towards Billy, muttering under his breath: " _Told_ you they couldn't be straight. You owe me 100 bucks."

"Oh, shut up, White— hey, let's steal their candy bowl on the way out."


End file.
